Sequel in Belgravia
by toshibaschmiddy
Summary: My rendition of what happened in Karachi. (After series 2 episode 1 for reference) Hope you enjoy
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter I**

A dark figure trekked tacitly across the rough terrain. The balmy air clung to him as he made his way to the dimly lit warehouse. The figure paused a few meters away, his pale eyes scanning the perimeter. He determined the safest route, inhaled, and cautiously approached the building.

Voices from inside slowly became audible as the figure neared. He raised his fingers to his temples and closed his eyes, picturing the layout of the warehouse, where the guards would be positioned. With a combination of speed and stealth, the figure slipped into the building. He rushed down the empty hall until he came to a room containing, according to his calculations, two guards one of which was armed, most likely with a machine gun. He quickly planned his method of attack. He smirked, c_hild's play. _ In a split second the figure rushed into the room, unarmed the guard, and had the two of them unconscious within seconds. Breathing heavily, he donned the black robes of one of the guards. Judging by the force of his blows, he estimated he had about 15 minutes before they regained consciousness. As he picked up the gun, he pulled the black turban over his dark curls and walked back into the dark corridor.

She kneeled in the middle of an empty room. The only source of light came from the headlights of a car behind her. She was silent. She just stared ahead, lost in the thoughts she believed would be her last. They had told her that when the time came she would be allowed a final message to someone. She had no family, none that she would contact anyway. It hardly mattered, for when they told her, a family member hadn't even crossed her mind. In fact, only one person had.

The dark figure approached a group of hooded men. One stepped forward and yelled something in Urdu along the lines of, "Where have you been? I want to get rid of this whore."

The figure gritted his teeth at the disrespectful term he'd used to describe her. They swapped his machine gun for a scimitar and led him to a larger room lit by the headlights of a car.

She heard the men enter the room and without looking up knew their purpose. Her phone was handed down to her and she was told in broken English to make it quick. She pulled up her messages. She stopped. _What's the use? _She thought. He'd only replied once, and that was before he knew what she was really doing, who she was working for. Before she destroyed the chances of him ever reciprocating her feelings. The guard motioned with his outstretched hand for her to hurry. Her eyes welled with tears as her shaking fingers typed, _Goodbye, Mr. Holmes._ She gazed at the screen, remembering for a moment. _Send_

He saw her kneeling on the floor in a full hijab, the irony of which was almost too much. How vastly different this was from when they first met. Among the emotions he expected to experience he had thought satisfaction would dominate them. Oddly enough though, he didn't quite know how or what he was feeling. He didn't like not knowing. He stepped towards her, lifting the scimitar above her, perpendicular to her neck. He contemplated how easy it would be to kill her. She probably deserved it. When they met she had the resources to potentially blackmail God knows how many people including a member of the Royal family. She had worked for Moriarty and nearly extracted millions from the British government. She had used him. Then his gaze fell over her shoulder onto her mobile phone. He watched as she typed the message. _Goodbye, Mr. Holmes._

Irene Adler closed her eyes and waited. Suddenly, she heard it. She opened her eyes as her lips curved into a slight smile. She looked up at her executioner with hope. There she met his pale eyes, shining with excitement.

"When I say run, _RUN_."  
Sherlock turned as he swung the sword back. He was outnumbered, but he could have cared less. He felt like nothing could stop him. His mind was spinning and everything was a blur. The crack of gunfire finally shook him out of it.

"For Pete's sake, Mister Holmes," Irene Adler scolded breathlessly. "You didn't really think you could take all of them with a sword, did you?"

Sherlock turned and looked at her, dumbfounded.

She placed the gun down and removed her headdress. "I must thank you for changing your mind earlier. Though detective suits you better than executioner," she toyed.

Sherlock pulled the turban off, revealing his pale face and disheveled hair. "_Consulting_ detective," he corrected.

"Well what now Mr. _Consulting_ Detective?"

"We've got about two minutes and… forty-three seconds before two very unhappy guards wake up. I suggest we leave beforehand."

"Someone's been busy," she smiled. "Did you have fun storming the castle?"

Sherlock ignored her teasing and searched the car for the keys.

"Well I doubt they just left them out in the open," Irene added.

"No, but they did leave the spare in the glove compartment," Sherlock retorted, shaking the keys for her to see.

They had been driving for a while before Irene asked, "So what now?"

Sherlock glanced at her with eyebrows lowered in confusion.

"I can't go back to England," she continued.

"I know," he responded, staring down the road.

"You've worked something out for me then I presume."

"In a sense. You'll be taken into a protection program, but all the details will be disclosed. I won't know where you've been relocated to."

"Protection," she said. "You do know me."

Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the road. Part of him wished she could go back to London with him, although he knew she couldn't.

"What time will I be leaving tomorrow?" Irene asked nonchalantly.

"You won't."

Her eyes widened with hope and she turned to him for an explanation.

"You'll be leaving in seven hours," he finished.

She lowered her eyes, her heart stopped and sank. Seven hours? She had thought they would at least have the night together. What was she hoping for anyway? Sex? That wasn't going to happen, even if they were to spend the night together. But that wasn't it. She wanted him in a different way. She wanted him to want her. She watched him drive in silence and wished she could see anything.

Seven hours was an approximation of course. He knew exactly how long it would be before she left. Six hours and thirty-eight minutes. He focused on the dark road. He wondered what she was thinking. He still couldn't read her. He thought that would change when he discovered the password for her mobile phone. He knew she had some sort of feelings toward him, although he didn't know what the extent of those feelings was. He couldn't call it love that would be too risky. He called it sentiment, just feeling or emotion. He shifted his gaze to her for a moment. He took note of her body language, which was admittedly limited due to the fact that they were in a car. Crossed arms indicated discomfort. Downwardly tilted head translated sadness. Unfocused gaze down and to the right suggested the remembering of feelings. She looked up at him, and his eyes quickly darted back to the road.

"We have a few hours. There's time for dinner," Irene flirted.

"We're driving through Pakistani wilderness; I doubt there are many desirable choices when it comes to cuisine."

"That's not an objection," she pointed out with a smirk.

"It's not an acceptance," he added.

Irene smiled as she changed the subject. "How's Hamish?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Why?"

"Just making small talk. Thought you might want to talk about him, seeing as how you two are a couple," she teased.

Sherlock ignored her, focusing instead on the dark road.

"Oh come on, if we're going to spend the next seven hours in this car together we might as well talk."

"What for?"

"For me."

Sherlock pursed his lips together before replying. "What do you want to talk about then?"

"Tell me about one of your cases."

Sherlock looked at her to make sure she was serious. He inhaled sharply and began. "All right. John calls this one The Mystery of Boscombe Valley."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"Last June I had the pleasure of encountering one of those simple cases which are extremely difficult. The murder of a man named Charles McCarthy was brought to my attention by Lestrade, which required me to go to west England. So John and I took a train to Herefordshire, where Boscombe Bay is located. On our way there I explained to John what I knew about our newly presented assignment."

Irene smiled inwardly as Sherlock continued, his excitement growing.

"On June third, the Monday before we arrived, McCarthy left his home saying he had an appointment at three. Two witnesses claimed to have seen him walking towards Boscombe Pool alone, one of which said that he saw McCarthy's son, James walk down the same road a few minutes later, carrying a gun. Another witness said that she saw the two arguing."

"And does the son shoot his father?" Irene interjected.

Sherlock shot her a kvetching look before responding, "James returned unarmed, his right hand bloodied, moments later claiming that his father was dead. The father was found with his head caved in and his son's gun nearby. More than enough evidence to cause speculation towards McCarthy the younger."

"But he didn't kill his father, did he?" Irene gathered.

Sherlock smiled. "According to Ms. Turner, no. She was the one who brought the case to the police stating that she knew James was innocent. He seemed to agree for the most part during his interview with the police, whereupon he pleaded his innocence to the murder of his father but admitted that he nonetheless deserve to be arrested. Now what kind of murderer attempting to cover up their crime admits to some guilt when in the hands of the police?"

"One that's trying to be clever?"

"Oh no, you didn't see him; he wasn't smart enough to come up with something like that," Sherlock disclosed. "No, that was one of the reasons why I believed he was innocent."

Irene was becoming interested. "So what was the son's explanation?"

"He had been away from home for three days before his father's murder. Upon his return, he saw McCarthy senior leave the house. Not knowing where his father was going, James decided to go to rabbit-shooting at Boscombe Pool. On his way there, he heard his father make a distinctive Australian call that they used with one another, since that's where the father was from. James followed the sound to his father, but McCarthy apparently wasn't pleased to see him. They then got into an argument and James, frustrated, returned to the house. He heard a struggle and returned to see his father dying. He couldn't make out much of what his last words were, save for something about a rat."

"What about the argument they had?" Irene inquired, "Did he deny its occurrence?"

"No, but when asked what it was about, he refused to expand on the topic. Ms. Turner, on the other hand, was very open about it when Lestrade and I ran into her. She told us that she believed they were fighting about her."

Irene smirked. "I bet she was a pretty thing," she purred.

Sherlock replied with a sideways glance before continuing. "They weren't fighting over her, they were fighting about her. Apparently, McCarthy wanted his son to marry her, although the two had no intention of doing so. Didn't want to 'jeopardize their friendship', although they clearly had feelings for one another. Miss Turner couldn't stay for further questioning because her father was in hospital, suffering from a nervous breakdown at the news of McCarthy's death. They knew each other from their time spent in Australia, and came to England to settle down. Later, as if it wasn't obvious, James McCarthy admitted to having sentiment towards Miss Turner, but feared his affection would go unmatched. He also admitted that she was the subject of their disagreement."

"What does that have to do with who killed McCarthy?" Irene asked.

Sherlock grinned. "In the line of detective work, one learns to never discount even the most seemingly random bits of information. In this specific case, it was extremely pertinent to the killer."

"How? Was the killer in love with the daughter too?"

Sherlock stifled a grin, loving the fact that she hadn't worked it out yet. "Not quite. Look at what we know. What are the two main clues?"

"McCarthy went to Boscombe Pool before he knew his son had returned," Irene started.

Sherlock nodded. "Which means?"

"There must be a third party, someone who McCarthy would also be able to use an Australian call to signal."

"Exactly. Later, when we examined the body, John noted that the blow was to the back of the head, which doesn't cause delirium. Therefore we couldn't discount his final words, they were a clue."

"I thought the son didn't make out most of what his father said."

"He didn't, so one can assume the father didn't actually say 'a rat' it must have been something that sounded like it. The father was murdered, so if he wasn't delirious, he would be trying to tell his son who his attacker was."

"It could be a name."

"Possibly, but let's take into account what else we know about the killer."

"The relationship between Miss Turner and James McCarthy," Irene remembered.

"What else?"

"That's all I know."

"Well after a few minutes at the crime scene I knew his height, his gait, his dominant hand, the type of cigarettes he smoked, where he hid, the weapon he used, and that he had a prosthetic leg." Sherlock proclaimed nonchalantly.

The side of Irene's lips turned up at his boasting. "And using that information you could track the killer down?"

"Yes, but I could have figured it out without it."

"How?" Irene questioned.

"The father's last words."

Suddenly it clicked in Irene's head. "The father was signaling to a fellow Aussie then, before he died, the son misheard his father and thought he was saying something about a rat when in reality he was telling him the city the killer was from. Ballarat, Australia. I assume the relationship between Miss Turner and James McCarthy was pertinent to the killer because he disagreed with it. The killer was Mr. Turner."

Sherlock grinned. "He confessed of course. McCarthy had blackmailed him for years, threatening to reveal information about a gang he had been in when he was younger. That's how he made his fortune. Turner decided to give McCarthy his best land and whatever else he wanted to keep his mouth shut, but asking for his daughter was the last straw. He met McCarthy at Boscombe pool to talk about it, and decided the only way out was to get rid of him. John and I didn't inform the police. Turner only had a few months left, and we got James relieved of all charges. I believe he and Miss Turner are happily married currently."

Irene smiled inwardly. "That had a very happy ending for a murder."

"Yes, quite the rarity in my work," Sherlock agreed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"I can tell you a story about _my_ work," Irene teased.

"I highly doubt that would be appropriate," Sherlock commented.

"We're both grown-ups, Mister Holmes."

Sherlock lowered an eyebrow. "You sure?"

"No. But I suppose I should have gathered that from Jim's nickname for you."

Sherlock retorted, "And I from your frankly juvenile password."

The pair was silent for a moment, the white noise of tires on the unpaved road filling the gap. Suddenly, they burst into a fit of laughter.

"Oh", Irene asked between breaths, "how much longer are we going to be in this car?"

Sherlock began to regain his composure. "We still have a few hours, I'm afraid. What's next? We open up and tell each other our life stories?"

"I think that would only be painful for the both of us. I can't imagine being related to your brother."

"You really don't want to." Sherlock assured her.

Their conversation came to a halt. Sherlock pursed his lips together awkwardly as he tried to concentrate on the empty stretch of road ahead. His insides began to feel like they were being microwaved and his head began to spin. Sherlock rarely held a conversation for more than a few minutes, nevertheless one that didn't pertain entirely to his work. His heart felt like it was simultaneously racing and stopping and he could hear Mycroft's voice taunting him from the back of his mind.

Irene watched the detective, consumed with studying his every detail. She watched as he pursed his lips, as his brow furrowed. Sometimes she could see flashes of something in his expression, but it was too quick to analyze. She watched him and wondered what was going on in his head. It almost seemed as if he were somewhere else. She noticed his knuckles whiten as he gripped the steering wheel. Suddenly, he let out an aggravated growl. Irene met his gaze with one of both confusion and admitted concern.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Sorry. I was- um- Mycroft." _Stupid. _He scolded. _Obvious cover-up._ He resented the fact that he was always flustered around The Woman.

Irene was startled by his sudden falter. Not that he hadn't done it before. He had often acted a little off around her during their previous interactions. This time, however, he seemed to be almost distressed. Irene felt more than a little nervous at the possibility of Sherlock Holmes having a mental breakdown. She decided to offer up some form of distraction.

"I'll have to come up with an alias," she affirmed.

Sherlock blinked as he snapped back to reality. "Hm?"

"When I go to wherever it is I'm being relocated," Irene clarified.

"Yes." Sherlock agreed, somewhat distant.

"Any advice?"

"I trust you're clever enough to come up with something. Disguises are merely self-portraits, as you put it." he reminded. "Anyway, I'm not supposed to know anything about your new identity or whereabouts. That would defeat the purpose of the protection program."

"It's a shame," she respired. "I could use an ally."

"Well I doubt you'll have any trouble securing leverage once you've settled in."

_Settling in_. "Maybe I'll get married," Irene added, vocalizing her thoughts.

Sherlock felt a twinge in his chest, similar to how he felt when John chose to go on dates instead of tagging along with him to a crime scene or the morgue, only sharper.

"I never pegged you as someone who would go for monogamy."

"Being in a relationship can be very affirming," Irene stated. "Especially if you know how to use it to your advantage."

Sherlock pondered her statement and tucked it away for future reference. "Like ours, for example?"

"And how would you define our relationship, Mister Holmes?" she inquired, masking any signs of eagerness or, dare she say, hope in her tone.

"Undefinable." Sherlock retorted, in lieu of an answer.

The car slowed as the growling pebbles were replaced with the whisper of paved road. The cluster of lights ahead signaled the city. They glittered and flashed in an attempt to mimic the stars which softly peppered the darkened sky above.

"I've rented a hotel room in the airport where you can get washed up and changed." Sherlock informed Irene.

"I'm afraid I didn't bring a spare set of clothes." Irene answered mockingly.

"You forget," Sherlock reminded, "I know your measurements."

The corner of Irene's uncolored lips turned upwards. "Thank you." She said after a few moments.

"It's no trouble." Sherlock replied. "One never really forgets anything, you merely have to-"

"No, I mean for everything."

"You're welcome." Sherlock paused before adding, "It would have been a shame to lose the woman who nearly beat me."

Irene scoffed, "Nearly?"

"Yes, of course. You may have won some battles, but I ultimately won the war."

"You won the war did you?"

"Sentiment is found on the losing side, remember?"

"Then what do you consider this?" Irene mused.

Sherlock sat mulling it over in silence before his face twitched into a grimace. _Damn._

Sherlock stopped the car at the front entrance. He exited and made his way to the passenger side, opening her door. They walked up to a valet, and Sherlock handed him the keys before they entered the crisp air-conditioned hotel. The sudden change in temperature made Irene's skin prick in response. She waited behind Sherlock as he got their room keys from the front desk. The lobby was white with strips of dark wood. The tan and brown tiles reflected the golden light with their glossy coating. Sherlock lead her to their room. It was a reasonable size, the color scheme mirroring that of the lobby. Not as nice as other places she'd been, but under the current circumstances she didn't mind.

Sherlock turned to face her. "I'll go gather your itinerary and clothes and whatnot while you get washed up; I trust you can locate the bathroom?"

"I'm sure I can manage without you." Irene replied, wondering if she really could.

Sherlock exited the room, the weighted door swishing closed behind him. He straightened his suit jacket and made his way to the check-in counter. His internal timer was still counting down. Two hours and forty-three minutes.

Back in the hotel room, Irene slipped off her dark robes revealing her pale skin. She turned around to see herself in the large mirror. She was covered in small blotches of purple and green, a token from her not so delicate handlers. She turned the handles of the faucet and the water hissed out of the showerhead. Irene looked up at the wall across from the mirror where a clock was hung. Two hours and forty minutes.


End file.
